


Opposable

by BasilDisco



Category: Babylon (TV)
Genre: Banter porn, Developing Relationship, F/M, Post-Series, okay I don't have plot bunnies, they're more like mood...turtles?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-09 16:29:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8899468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BasilDisco/pseuds/BasilDisco
Summary: " That drivel from romantic comedies about a man and a woman fighting at first, annoying each other, ultimately they fall in love. Pure shit. This wasn't love. This was gravity. This was physics. He was a dying star. She was a supernova. Two galaxies collapsing into each other for eternity. Swirling and pinwheeling into oblivion. There would be no romance, no toothy smiles as the credits rolled, just a silent explosion that could take out a corner of the universe." Liz and Finn argue their way through yet another disaster.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. This is my first fic and I'm nervous as hell. But I got the courage because this is a small fandom (but obviously my OTP) and everything else I've read here is so good that I couldn't lurk anymore. But I have no idea what I'm doing, so any and all feedback would be greatly appreciated. 
> 
> This has not been beta'd or britpicked, but at least this first chapter is from the POV of an American character, so I figured I could get away with it this once.

“Your smile is off-putting. Your whole face is ruined by your mouth. Are you okay with that? Like, even aware of it, at all?”

Liz’s shoulder blades dug into the mirrored wall of the lift under the unchanging expression of the man standing across from her, leaning on the opposite side. It was, perhaps, an escape attempt perpetrated by her body without the consent of her brain. Perhaps it was a massage. Fuck it.

She had been making headway with Inglis. It had been three months since the riots, three months since the footage was released, and everything was relatively calm. She was in control. She had sold him on Metwork, or at least a version of it. Slightly pared down compared to the original coke-fueled rant (that was still obviously brilliant), but she could work her way back. Like Obamacare. It wasn't nearly as good as the initial spark, but it was manageable and would benefit a great many people. Well. It would benefit Inglis. And her. And the police, of course. So, yeah. Great many people. He said he was just crossing some t’s and poking dots in the eye and then he would sign off. That was two days ago, and in the time that had elapsed Finn had managed to undermine her. Yet again. She didn't know what his reasoning had been this time; what he used to undo her hard work. 

Not knowing was eating at her. And she did not enjoy being eaten in this context.

The fight began as a glare in Inglis’ office then simmered into hissing accusations at him the length of the walk to the elevator. It finally erupted into demanding an explanation as to what he still didn't understand about how great a fucking idea this fucking was for fucks’s sake as the doors rolled open.

All of this was met with the same languid expression. And so she faltered. She mentioned his physical appearance. 

Bastard.

Finn crooked his neck to the left. The smile in question didn't widen or harden, just somehow became more pronounced. Liz mentally congratulated him for possessing such control of the muscles in his face. She was sure her own features weren't capable of such subtlety. This was followed by a mental slap because no. No victories. Not even small ones. He doesn't deserve it. Bastard. Reptile. Rat. Bastard. Rat...bastard. 

“It's when the insults get personal that the argument is lost, Liz,” Finn drawled, sensing the concession made by his opponent in the privacy of her own mind. He lazily kicked one foot in front of the other to cross his legs at the calf, his arms hung loosely at his sides. Shoulders lowered. A perfect study of relaxation. It was, of course, only ever a study. Never the real thing. His jaw always gave him away. 

She felt the skin of her arms buzz, and she pursed her lips wondering why this new position gave her a chill. Wait, she didn't care. 

Liz quickly propelled herself from the wall, partially out of instinct and partially to startle him out of thinking he’d made a point. Which, technically he had because she’d regretted saying it mere milliseconds after the words left her mouth. It was cheap, even if it was accurate. No, wait, hang on she had it.

“Our job is personal, Finn. Interpersonal. How do you get people to trust you if it looks like you’ll unhinge your jaw any second and engulf their head, smothering them to death?”

“People?” Finn remained with his head against the mirrored wall, as if he couldn't be asked to match her level of enthusiasm for the argument. “I don't work with people. I work with you. And journalists. Journalists are just a mass of animated flesh with deadlines and ulterior motives, and they don't trust so much as they…” he wagged his head in a semblance of searching for a word they both knew he already possessed “...know damn well they don't have a better option than to listen to me if they want to continue being a mass of flesh with deadlines. And you-”

“Oh yes, let’s hear it.”

“You would never trust me, anyway.”

That took her by surprise. Something bordering on honesty from him, instead of a string of insults. Then she recovered. 

“Oh, but I do trust you, Finn. Because I already know everything you’re going to do before you do it.”

“Ms. Garvey,” he affected subordination at the most inopportune times, “I do hate to nitpick, but that’s not trust,” his eyes left her face to roll in a graceful arc echoed by another vaguely bored wag of his head before finally resting on the panel of numbers that told him they arrived at the desired floor. Her gaze had followed his but then they both resumed eye contact, “that is a false senses of security. And if it were true, you’d know what I said to Inglis.”

Ding

Bastard.

She smiled at him and stepped back, letting him exit the lift first. His smile wavered at her lack of reply before rolling his eyes again and beginning the long stomp down the hall.

“Besides,” he continued “you haven't proved your personhood. The current theory is that you are merely the product of all the things you think people want you to be. Things that people think they need to be in order to get respect, or for people to like you. But it still isn't working, is it? Because in the end you bare your teeth and make personal attacks, call me a dinosaur or a snake this time, (moving up in the world’s timeline, glad about it), and you lose.”

“By your own logic that proves my personhood, doesn't it? Because if I was just an amalgam of things people liked then-”

“Oh you missed the bit where I changed the rules of engagement so that I can just insult you in whatever way I feel like and it will be a point to me.” Finn rolled his shoulders as he walked briskly. Liz’s elbows pumped as she took several quick steps to keep up.

“Ah! Good. Well in that case you are a snake. A fat pink snake with a huge head and your hair is weird and nobody likes you.”

Finn made headline hands while walking even faster, “Pot is now calling Kettle unlikable. Kettle remains both useful and unfazed.” She thought she saw a smirk but mostly she saw the back of his weird hair.

“People like me, Finn. And pots are useful.”

“Yes, they’re in a lot of phrases, aren't they? Usually sharing the bill with piss and used to describe being destitute. You’re really nailing this.”

“Well I’m only human. I wasn't sacrificed as a child so that a wet dream someone had after watching Wall Street could take human form. And those are two different kinds of pots, asshole.”

“My parents were very well compensated. And I don't resort to cheap tricks like you do. Tom mentioned you practically asked him to go to bed with him in order to get information.”

“Mentioned!”

“After a brief grilling, perhaps.”

“Bullshit.”

“Yes, I found it rather surprising as well. I thought that was a ploy you’d have the decency to only use on adults.”

“Actually I try to reserve it for my own species. In case you were wondering why you've never been invited.” Liz ignored another rush of sensation tumbling down her spine.

“Yes, think of the children. However, that doesn't explain your predilection for closing in 5 or six inches away from my ruined, dishonest face to make a point.”

He stopped mid-sweep and turned to face her. She nearly fell over backward in her attempt to avoid plowing into him.

“See? You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what, you...wire hanger?! You're the one who stopped!”

“And you’re still so close.”

“I don't tend to back down just because someone’s ego can’t handle-”

“I think you’re playing chicken.”

His hand were at his hips, chin jutting forward. He chewed his gum fiercely for three chomps then slowed to a thoughtful pace as his gaze swept Liz’s face for clues of weakness or aging or anything he could use if this backfired.

“You-what?! Chicken?!” Liz had two seconds to stare at his giant, not-unattractive (no, no, stop that) face in incredulity. She thought she saw something pass behind his eyes before he whirled away from her and marched on faster than before to his office. 

She caught up and stood in the doorway as he was rounding his desk and rearranging files in a vain attempt to look busy, she assumed. “What in the actual four legged hell is that supposed to mean?”

Finn shook his head vigorously. “Nothing. Not a thing. Just forget it.”

Liz gaped, open-mouthed for another beat as he continued to fuss with items in front of him. She made an attempt at recovering non-chalance by leaning against the glass door jamb. “Sorry, you think I want to kiss you?”

Finn sputtered and glanced at her quickly, went wake his computer, then returned his gaze to her face in earnest. “What? No.” He sat down. “No, Liz, i just meant-”

“What did you mean by chicken, Finn.”

“Intimidation tactics. You’ve been trying to edge my t-bird over blind man’s bluff.

“No, you think my car wants to kiss your car.”

“Your car still hasn't caught up with my car.”

“My car is in charge of your car.”

“Liz, you’re losing the car metaphor.” Finn was grasping at semantic straws to cover up...embarrassment? Possibly? Liz decided she would use his flustered state to uncover a different truth. For now.

“What did you say to Inglis, Finn?”

He regarded her as if she were a chessboard or maybe a poker table; she could see a war waging inside his thick skull and then, “I told him about this.”

He picked up his tablet and gave it several vigorous taps, then tossed it across his desk so it landed haphazardly facing up and toward her. She looked at him and he nodded pointedly as if this were the answer to all of her stupid questions so what the hell was she waiting for? 

She entered the room and picked up the device. “It’s the graffitied elephant in the room, Liz. Wanksy. Mia brought it to my attention when she heard about it on Twitter q&a. And I told Inglis. And we were deciding whether or not it was a threat. Whether or not to…”

Liz scrolled through the images.

“...to tell you about it. It was just three at first. But now they’re being reported all over the city.”

Liz looked down at the photos in front of her. Spraypainted images of police officers in various states of pain, torture, death. DEAD PIGGIES in all capitals. Some of them looked like Richard and her heart lurched. BIG DEAD PIGGY. Some of them looked like Robby Vas. KILL THE PIGLET.

One of them looked like her. 

MEDIA WHORE. 

Two of them looked like her…

“Yes. They uh, move away from the pig theme.” He supplied.

Three. Five. Ten. All over London. 

“You seem to have a fan. A morbid, artistically inclined fan that worked overnight to put your face on walls all over the city.” Finn was eying her cautiously. She got the impression that he might not actually be enjoying this.

“This happened overnight? Do we have, do they have any idea who...did they say what they wanted? Why they were doing this?”

“It’s being looked into, but so far this is it.” He stood up, but didn't move around the barrier between them. “There's no reason to think that you are in danger. We think it’s more that you’re the attractive female face of the Met. And the footage.”

She stared down at her own image, the first one. Painted on a tan wall somewhere. Maybe someone knew exactly where. Maybe that mattered. It was from her Instagram feed. A selfie she took two years ago on a trip back to San Francisco. Rendered here in thick chunks, black on beige, the cracks in the wall adding texture, aging her. 

She could feel panic or anger or both bubbling up. She was going to lash out at someone now and she was oddly comforted that it was going to be Finn. He could take it. 

“Why the fuck is this the first I’m hearing about this? This is my god damn face all over London along with images of beheaded cops. Why-”

“Liz,” Finn interrupted, finally rounding the desk and coming to stand on the side she was on, a little less than a foot away from her. “Liz,” he placated again and placed his hand on her forearm in a convincing show of support.

“I’m telling you now.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This doesn't have as much banter porn. Nobody is as sorry about that as I am.

“Finn, I could swear we weren’t scheduled to meet until 11:15.” Inglis returned to reading something on his phone after acknowledging that Finn had been ushered into his office. “We’re missing Liz, are we not?”  
“Actually, Commissioner, it’s Liz I was hoping we could talk about. Briefly. Liz’s current visibility.” Finn eased himself closer to the desk. He knew that between the two of them, he was more favored than Liz, but he was still a far cry from a Golden Child. Inglis had a habit of putting him on the backfoot. Caution was key. Couldn't steamroll this, easy does-  
"This wouldn’t be anything resembling a last ditch effort to halt Metwork, would it?”  
-it. Right. Here goes.  
"Yes, sir. Charles. Commissioner. But we wouldn't be halting for halting’s sake.”  
“Get it over with, then.” addressed, once again, to the screen in his hands. Finn’s face shifted imperceptibly two degrees towards annoyance.  
“This has recently come to our attention. Via the Twitter Q&A.” Finn handed over the tablet. “Now, we think it’s nothing, it hasn’t started trending, there are only 20 as of the last count, but more pictures than that because of retweets and reposts. But, uh, as you can see here, a few faces stick out. Some more than most.”  
“Jesus. Do they think it’s the same person? Or a collective?”  
“They’re still looking into it, but it’s a series of templates and the same paint, same style, I’m told. I’m not a critic myself” This was finally met with eye contact. Long and disapproving.  
“Alright so I’ll connect these dots you’ve provided for me. It’s been a long time since I’ve held a crayon and a kid’s menu, but I’ll give it a shot. You think launching Metwork now would be a bad idea because Liz is, what, in danger?”  
“Could reasonably be believed to be in danger, yes.” Finn swiveled his upper body and tilted his head to add emphasis and a wild stab at likability to his point.  
“But, Finn, and correct me if I’m wrong, you don’t actually believe she’s in danger.”  
“Guhm, well, no! No. Not in any immediate way. But I do think it’s in the best interest of the Met and Liz and you, to grab a potholder from the drawer and gently move her to the backburner until we can fully assess the situation.”  
Inglis gave him another long, hard stare. “You’re an arse.”  
Finn swallowed, but maintained eye contact. When no more sentiments appeared to be forthcoming, Finn began, “Sir-”  
“And you know that if she is, at any point, in danger, you will be labeled the biggest prick this department has ever seen and quite possibly be term-”  
“Listen, I don’t think, this is just-”  
“Fine. I’ll tell her that we’re in a holding pattern for now, but I want you to set her up in a meeting with the investigation so she can better understand what,” he gestured irritatedly toward the tablet, “whatever this is, is.”  
“Yes, Charles. Thank you.”  
“Fantastic. Now go wait outside for the next,” he pressed the home button on the tablet as he handed it back to Finn and read the clock at the top of the screen, “...three minutes until I need to see you again.”  
“Ah, ha. Yes.” Finn made his way out of the office just as Liz turned down the hall.

 

All told, this wasn’t how Finn wanted her to find out.  
In a perfect world, the news outlets would have run with it, and he would be conveniently standing behind her with a superior look on his face as she saw her face plastered, yet again, across multiple screens.  
If the news was slow to pick up the story, Plan B was suggesting that she herself check the twitter q&a, superior look, face plastered, etc.  
Plan E involved a search through her desk drawers revealing an empty can of spray paint and a ski mask. Superior look, attention hungry monster, you’re sacked. Etc.  
But here he was all the way down the list at Plan Q: Liz Corners Me When I All But Accuse Her of Making Sexual Advances and I Need to Deflect.  
It wasn't a great plan. It might not even technically be a plan. And the non-plan was crumbling at the look of panic on Liz’s face.  
He wasn't lying when he accused her of not being human. He'd never thought of her as anything but a force of unwanted and unnecessary change. She blew into the Met buoyed by pockets of hot air from her Ted Talk. Every idea she spouted since then reeked of idealism to the extent that he had to recheck his background research on her to ensure that she wasn't a 12 year old in a 30 year old’s body in a freak accident that involved sticking her tongue into the lightening port of a rose colored iPhone. Even after the business with Richard when she should have been exposed to him as weak and vulnerable, she turned around and used it to her advantage in a move that even he didn't foresee. That had been inconveniently arousing. And of course during the riots she made the crucial mistake of trying to connect with him. And perhaps they did connect, but no one was in their right minds that night and nothing about their encounter would hold up in a court of law.  
She was still ethereal to him, then. Above it all. Part of the machine designed to keep him held firmly in place. An obstacle to be moved or circumvented. She was an idea.  
And he expected that idea to storm out of his office after seeing these photos, to go to each graffiti location and take pictures of them and post them herself (hashtag freedom of speech hashtag transparency) not...this.  
There was the anger at him for not saying anything that he anticipated, but it was tinged with fear. Why? She had to know this wasn't serious, that it couldn't possibly affect her. It was just street art, for christ’s sake. Her face was on the news, recognizable and gorgeous, and she revealed a huge fucking news story involving corruption and a dead boy. That’s going to influence some artists.  
But this. This is what regret felt like, he knew. A sinking feeling. And now he must be panicking too because his hand was on her arm.  
“Liz.”  
Her eyes moved from the screen to where he touched her, but she didn't acknowledge what he said. He pulled his hand away and rubbed his neck, looked through the glass walls of his office wondering how big a scene they could get away with.  
“Liz. I don't think you should be upset.”  
“I think you should expect me to feel however I appear to feel after discovering that my face and the word ‘whore’ are painted on multiple street corners.”  
“I think ‘media’ takes the edge off of ‘whore’ a bit. No one could reasonably think that you’ll suck them off in an alley for a tenner.”  
Ah, that was a thousand watts of hatred beamed directly at him.  
“Finn. I get that you’re not great at talking to people in shock which is, you know, weird considering your line of work. But glossing over that major character flaw on your part, how about I take the reins on consoling me, yeah?” Her tone put him somewhat at ease. “I’m assuming that you’ve put out a statement already.” She was scrolling through the pictures for a third time.  
“Not yet. The news has been slow to-”  
“Put out a statement. We should-” Her voice was far away again and her eyes were glassy as she passed another image of herself.  
Finn offered a valiant attempt to return to normal operating procedure and huffed slightly before replying, “And say what, exactly? ‘The Met encourages citizens to ignore all graffiti, we would heartily suggest that you not kill us all, and if you have a bucket of whitewash on you, please do toss it in the general direction of the nearest obscenity.”  
“Yeah, that sounds good. Clean it up.” Finn was unsure as to whether she meant the statement or the graffiti, and what’s more he was fairly certain she’d ignored everything he just said. She was still looking at the damn tablet, she was turning around slowly from his desk and making her way out to the hallway.  
“Liz,” he almost whispered, his voice cracking. She stopped and turned back to him, only half aware that he’d called her. He cleared his throat, “That’s my pad.”  
She looked lost. Why wasn’t she yelling anymore? This wasn’t a big deal. A little voice was running around in his reptile brain screaming “This is not a big deal!. She’s overreacting! She’s playing you like a cheap pianola! This was fun two hours ago!”  
But the look on her face, her eyes, that voice was being drowned out. And he could hear the blood in his ears. What the fuck was that?  
“Liz, it’s okay. They’ll figure it out.”  
Liz looked at him, then back at the tablet. She reverently hit the button to turn the screen off and handed it to him.  
“Where is Vas, again?” She still sounded far away, but she was participating in this world at least, and thinking of things he had forgot. “We need PR with him in case something develops. Send Martin.”  
And she was gone. She was a figure in blue walking away to the right, becoming obscured by more and more panes of glass.  
Finn was standing still and alone and wondering who he had become. 

 

He never thought of himself as a ‘damsel in distress’ man. That’s what was rankling him. He didn’t want to save anyone but himself. He liked strong women (with the caveat that they didn't try to take his job). He even liked to be dominated sometimes; a useful piece of information obtained in his college days when a girl slapped him full on while riding him and he had a hell of a time staying composed much longer. They broke up soon afterward, but for different reasons involving other men.  
So why did his chest feel so tight? Couldn't be a heart attack, far too young.  
He left the office at 8pm full of enough bluster to pass inspection from Mia.  
“You told Liz, then?”  
Finn glared at her a moment before replying, “Yes, I showed her.”  
“She asked me to set up a meeting at Holburn with the DI assigned.”  
“Oh, yes, wonderful. Put me on that too.” He adopted an airy tone, to the best of his ability. Airy wasn't in his wheelhouse.  
“Really? I mean-”  
“Yes, and, well this probably won't come up, but I would very much appreciate it if Inglis thought I called that meeting.” Mia’s face was impassive, but with an ever present hint of deep judgement. “It’s something he asked me to do and I completely forgot.”  
“Sure. I’ll rewrite the past half hour. No problem. We have officers and on Vas although he’s already under house arrest, so.”  
“Good, good.” He wanted to go home quite badly.  
“That’s what I don't understand about this, why target both Robbie and Liz? Shouldn't it be one or the other? She’s the one who released-”  
“Not sure you'll find the graffiti artist to be a bastian of logic, Mia.”  
“I suppose not, but still.”  
“Is Liz still here?” He was so airy. He was a hot air balloon. He was an Aero bar.  
“No she left a half hour? Forty-five minutes ago maybe?”  
“Home?” Bouncy castle levels of airiness.  
“Should have thought so? There’s nothing on her schedule-”  
“Great, great. Fine. See you tomorrow.” He adjusted his scarf.  
“9:30.”  
“What?”  
Mia, bless her, didn't look as smug as she could have. “9:30am. The meeting. Tomorrow. Holburn station.”  
“Right, yes.” He glared at her for good measure. “See you.”  
At home he poured himself a drink, a rarity as he seldom drank alone. So maybe he should invite someone over. _Liz_. No. TV on. Ha, look at him, can't do his job, what an arse. Look at her, she's new, isn't she? _Liz arches her back against the wall of the lift, he can see the muscles of her neck move in the mirror behind her_ , Turn the channel, he doesn't understand cooking competition shows, _Liz_ , what’s the point of watching them if you can't taste it, _Liz looking lost; her eyes finding his but not seeing him_ , that looks awful, send him packing, he can’t cook for beans, _Liz_ , turn back to the news, nothing about the graffiti, _his hand on her arm, soft and alive and frightened_ , apparently there are some compromising photographs of a cabinet minister with his au pair, _Liz so close to his face he could count her eyelashes-_  
Finn hurled the remote across the room, absently grateful that it landed in an armchair. What the fuck. This had to be addressed. He talked about it with himself. He talked about it with two more glasses of amber liquid. He asked himself why the fuck he brought up chicken in the first place. He went to the bathroom, took a shower. One more glass. Laying in bed. _Liz. Liz. Liz_.  
Fuck it.  
Eight minutes later he gasped her name aloud, kept his eyes screwed shut and begged for the oblivion of sleep. He hadn't allow himself to come; he didn't deserve it.

 

Finn didn't arrive until 9:45. Liz and Mia were already exiting the room. A man with a wide, red face followed, talking too loudly for anyone’s comfort. Finn glanced quickly at Mia and kept Liz in his peripheral as the DI bellowed.  
“As we see it, this is just punks letting off steam as usual. It’s more graphic than, well, normal I suppose. But they aren't making any direct threats. They’re just missing the free tvs they boosted during the riots and they’re trying to stir the pot and the worst thing we can do is let them think they’ve done it.”  
His colleague added, “Yeah, so our plan at the moment is to keep an eye open, and as we said the current pieces are in the process of being removed by a private contractor that we’ve worked with prev-.”  
Finn cut him off, “How many where there discovered in total?”  
“43.” Liz said, not looking at him, and why did he want her to? Instead they both looked at the policemen as Liz continued, “I’m really not trying to step on your toes, but it’s a mistake to remove them before we understand what this is. 43 in a night across nine boroughs. That’s not something one person could do. It was organised.”  
“We haven't any reason to think that.” the red man said.  
“What about the reason I just said?” Liz asked with the beginning of an edge in her voice. Finn cast a quick look in her direction to try and read her expression and saw that she was collected, but possibly about to set a small fire.  
“We just want to make sure” he jumped in, “that we’re seen to be taking any threats of violence against police seriously.”  
And she finally looked at him, then. The arsonist at bay. His eyes flitted to hers briefly and then moved back to his prey.  
“We’re taking it seriously, uh..” the man patronizingly searched for a name.  
“Finn Kirkwood, Deputy of Communications.”  
“What, all three of you?”  
“Yes,” Finn drawled, “because we’re taking this seriously.”  
Mia’s phone buzzed and she stepped away to answer it.  
“Right, well,” the DI seemed perplexed, “I suppose we can leave some of them if you think it’s important.  
“For now, yes.” Liz stated simply. The inspector and constable made off to, one could assume, stop the private contractors from blasting any further.  
And now he was alone with Liz. They both pulled their phones out at the same time for something to do or because it was their job, possibly. Finn found something on his phone that meant he could leave and never see anyone he knew ever again, possibly. The earth cracked open to swallow him whole, possibly. Or possibly he opened his mouth to say: “So how are you feeling?”  
The moment that passed between question and answer was unbearable. Truly the most difficult thing he’d experienced in months. Fuck it. Fuck this.  
She’d been looking at him and he’d been silently begging his phone to turn into a grenade with the pin pulled. He didn't look back at her. Couldn't.  
“I’m fine, Finn, thanks for asking.”  
Was she fine? There was literally know way to know now that he’d asked her.  
“Great, well, lots to do, so-” he began when Mia reappeared.  
“Apparently the Deputy Assistant Commissioner was caught pissing into a kiddie pool.”

Oh, thank _God._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously sorry about no banter. It's coming back in a big way, though.


	3. Chapter 3

Liz allowed him to take charge. She wanted to argue over the best way to minimize this new clusterfuck, but in the end decided it was best to let the dog off the chain. She handled other minor fires throughout the day while he stayed just on the edge of her awareness, shouting and schmoozing and threatening and taking a lunch that he probably also shouted, schmoozed and threatened before eating. 

She couldn’t pinpoint this new sense of unease. It would be fair to attribute most of it to the fact that her face was, and still is, all over the city along with images of dead police and threats to police that were still alive. But that wasn’t it, not all of it.

Her job, her whole life, in fact, was a tapestry that she was constantly trying to keep from fraying. And now there was an integral thread somewhere that was missing. And also her shuttlecock was jammed against something. Something that perhaps could be described as looking like a 6 foot tall British man with no idea how to style his hair effectively. 

At around 7 pm she made a decision and practically forced herself to make the walk from her office to his. 

Finn’s voice was muffled through the glass. He was in shirtsleeves and had one hand holding his phone to his ear and the other windmilling angrily as he shouted at the person on the other end. An Angry Little Teapot. Liz didn’t realize she hadn’t entered his office and was staring at him until this comparison made her snort with laughter, and the hand not carrying her tablet and phone flew to cover her mouth. She was sure he couldn't hear through the glass any better than she could. So it must have been a coincidence that he turned to look at her in that moment. Liz martialed her features and waved her hand in a vague ‘ignore me’ motion. He glared at her, turned his back and continued his assault down the phone. 

Mia’s voice broke what was left of her reverie. “He’s managed to quash the more descriptive versions of the story.” Mia joined Liz in watching Finn through the windows of his office. “ I mean, it’s out there, the arrest was made. I’ve put out a statement, but almost everyone I’ve talked to has already talked to…” she trailed off and nodded her head in Finn’s direction. 

“Yeah, that’s great. Has his wife been told? What's her statement going to be? This is going to come out in some form or another. Descriptive or not.” 

“He doesn’t have a wife, but we told his mum. Well, we’ve told her something closely related to the truth. She's not going to talk, though.” Mia made to look at her notes on what exactly was said. 

“How drunk do you have to be to piss in a kiddie pool in November?” Liz asked, still not managing to tear her eyes away from the pacing ape in the office. 

“Does the month matter, do you think?” Mia seemed genuinely intrigued by Liz’s worldview regarding seasonal public urination, mixed with a fair measure of condescension 

“I don’t know. I guess I figured you’d be less likely to urinate outside when it’s cold because it’s...cold? I guess I’ve never really thought about it. I’ve only pissed outside once and it was a long time ago, his face is huge, isn’t it?” Liz dropped her voice to a whisper.

“What? The Assistant Deputy Comm-” Mia began.

“No, no,” she shook her head and then used it to gesture toward Finn, “Like, you see people with big heads a lot, and obviously he has a big head but also his face is just...” she made a gesture with her hands similar to an expanding balloon.

“I guess so? I’ve never really thought about it.” Mia was giving her a look that Liz didn’t particularly appreciate, but she was, after all, the one who opened the big-faced can of worms. 

They both turned at the sound of a sliding glass door followed by Finn saying tersely “Hey, can I help you two to fuck off somewhere else? Only I’m feeling a bit like Roddy McDowall in Twilight Zone.” He retreated back into his office.

“That's a deep cut,” Mia muttered as she turned to make her way down the hall. The door to the office was left open.

“Actually, I need a few minutes of your time.” Liz said, stepping inside, hit full in the face with the smell of activated deodorant.

“Why? Sharon do a shit in a minicab?” He scrolled through his phone looking for someone else to harangue.

“Not one she’s been arrested for, anyway. But there’s always tomorrow.”

“I have to say I’m glad that your transparency flag doesn’t cross the border into Public Pissopolis.”

“I wouldn’t have handled it like you did, but in the end it’s a puff piece as long as it’s contained. Not a problem. Oh and I would have said ‘Pissburg.’”

“It won't get much traction. I have a few more calls to make. Urine-guay?”

She shook her head in almost entirely genuine disgust. “Weak.”

“Fuck off. Did you want something in particular, or should I have Mia put a half hour of ‘come up with place names that sound like bodily functions until I can name one Liz likes’ on our schedule?” He went back to tapping idly at his screen.

“No, I want to talk to you about the meeting this morning.” She watched him stop scrolling for a tenth of a second before resuming, the cogwheels turned in his head, his back and jaw tensed. 

“What about it?”

Liz learned from a mentor in college that, as a woman, you cannot waste your breath. You cannot sigh, cannot exhale in a meeting or an interview with a man. Sighing, exhaling is an emotional act. It discredits whatever it precedes because it now sounds like something felt and not thought. And feelings are irrelevant.

Quietly, she took a deep breath in. “You may have gotten the wrong impression yesterday. Here. In the office. I don’t need or want you to speak for me regarding the open investigation into the graffiti.” She fixed him with her most determined look, hoping it was at all convincing,

“S-speak for you?” His head whipped up in surprise.

“Yeah. I had the situation with DI Harding under control, you barge in, uninvited and late, and steamroll-”

He tossed his phone unceremoniously down on his desk, “Liz, I wasn't speaking for you. I was…” he was sputtering a bit which was quite a sight to see, “speaking to a cop. At the same time you were speaking to a cop. That’s what we do. Speak to policemen.”

“I didn't need you to speak to that cop. There are currently around 46,600 other police and police related personnel you could have all kinds of conversations with. Should you so choose.” 

“Inglis wanted me there. So yes, I did have to speak to that cop.”

“He wanted you there, but Mia told you about it?”

He had one hand on his hip. The other hand waved in frustration, his mouth opened and shut but no words took shape. 

She shook her head to clear it; to stop looking for meaning in his actions for the moment. “Finn, I can still do my job. I don't want you to think I'm scared.” She took a calculated half-step towards him. “You were right, yesterday. This isn't a big deal. It was just surprising. I mean. It’s a big deal that the lives of police are being threatened so publicly, but as far as the pictures of me are concerned...”

“I need to clarify something,” Finn burst out, and she almost took her half-step back. “First, of course I was fucking right. I’m always fucking right.” Liz rolled her eyes but said nothing because he was working up a good head of steam now and that was always fun to watch, in a way. “Second, whether or not you’re scared has nothing to do with how well I believe you can do your job because you are terrible at this job and it will one day eat you alive or just kill you immediately via aneurysm-”

“Kettle, while on self-important rant, reveals it doesn't own a mirror or anything _close_ to resembling self-awareness.”

Finn released a breath that, if you didn't know him, could almost be considered a laugh. “It’ll kill me slower, anyway.”

He appeared to run out of things to say. She waited politely for him to continue. She wanted to be the better person. He moved his mouse around on the desk. She looked down at the floor and almost smiled. She raised her eyes under cover of her lashes to steal a glance at him and caught him looking back at her. 

Awkward. 

Maybe not. 

He looked away shaking his head and she lost feeling in her arms for a moment. Something inside of her wobbled, tilted, threatened to break. 

She said his name out loud. “Finn.” She didn't know why. She wanted to say it again. That was weird. “Finn.”

“Are you...doing the name game?” he asked, looking down at his desk again.

She ignored him. Looked at the floor. Deep breath. Looked up. Waited for him to look up, too. Eye contact. “I don't need protecting.”

There was silence between them. Liz raised her left heel from the floor, pressing down on the ball of her foot. He released another mirthless exhalation. He rubbed his right thumb vigorously back and forth across his brow five times, then balled it into a fist and dropped it to his side. When he spoke again his voice was icy and controlled.

“You took my job, Liz, why on earth would I want protect you?”

That shouldn't have hurt. Why did that hurt? 

“Right. Great. Glad we agree on something.” She shifted her weight back to center. Fuck it. “though obviously not about this being your job. If it were your job you’d have it. And if it were your job you would have bellowed and slandered a dead kid and run this place into the ground while-”

“How could anything possibly be worse than what you’ve done here, Liz? Tell me.” He rounded his desk to face her. “Tell me, please because I can't see how and I've got a pretty good imagination.” 

“Really? Since when?” She knew she was deflecting. He knew it too. Might as well lean into it. “Oh, I know. Since you think I want to kiss you. Be near you at every opportunity. Touch you. Fuck-”

“Stop.” His eyes flickered, not quite closing, he looked at her so intensely; a palpable hatred. She had him cornered.

“I think you want to touch me, Finn.” Her heart raced now.

He bared his teeth at that, then covered them again, his eyes narrowed.

“I think you want to kiss me.”

“Stop,” he warned again, as their gazes simultaneously dropped to the other’s lips and snapped back again. Synchronized spite. She stepped forward. He shook his head once.

“And you're so close, now. You could.” She brought her own hand up to her face and traced the seam of her lips with her index finger. Gently. Slowly. She glanced down at the motion of his Adam’s apple.

Finn’s jaw tightened even more and his lips clamped together, a tight line, No Admittance. He huffed air through his nostrils like a cartoon bull.

Liz moved her hand from her mouth toward his face. His own hand moved in an arc to capture hers before she could reach. He gripped her wrist, tightening and loosening, out of sync with the sound of his rapid breath. She could feel her pulse under his fingers. 

“You could-” she began, but his other hand landed on the side of her face, almost gently, almost tenderly, but really nowhere near. He kept it there as she turned her head into his palm, almost wanting to kiss it but really nowhere near; he changed the angle on his next heavy breath so that his fingers now covered most of her mouth, the pads of his digits pressing and releasing imperceptibly into her skin. The hand around her wrist also rotated so now their arms were bent between them. He stepped in closer still. 

Her mouth opened involuntarily and the middle part of his ring finger brushed against the ridge between dry and wet. His eyes widened and narrowed again as his breath hitched, actually hitched, thank you, and he twisted his fingers so that her mouth closed again and he was safer. 

“I am not,” he forced, “protecting you.” 

His eyes were now rapidly traveling back and forth between her own. She was fairly certain what he was looking for; about as certain that she shouldn’t let him find it. 

She hummed two condescending notes against his mouth in lieu of speaking. He dropped his hands to his side and took a step back.

“Good to know,” she said, sounding more composed than she felt. He walked the long way around to his desk to get further away from her. 

“But doesn’t seem like you want to hurt me, either” 

His head snapped back once again to where she was standing and she held up the wrist he had touched and rotated it to test dexterity, looking at him all the while. 

“What a shame,” she said, and left before he could reply. 

She made it back to her office to collect her coat and purse on legs that didn't seem to want to work anymore. She checked the hallway before exiting toward the elevator. All clear. She looked through the open doors after pressing the button for the ground floor. Her heart sank as the doors closed without his hand stopping them.

She was home, soon enough. She extracted herself from the cab, her head still in a fog. She imagined what should have happened and what could have happened, and she was walking slowly. An easy target. And afterward she put some of the blame on herself. Afterward she recalled that she didn’t really feel the blow to the head, just the feeling of the pavement on her knees as she fell. She recalled hearing the yells and the barks of laughter. She recalled turning, twisting her body on the ground to see a face, to be of any help to herself once she could think clearly again. But they were gone.

She entered the lobby, made it to the elevator. She took out her phone, called Mia and described what had happened and what she wanted her to do. She hung up, dialled another number and left a message at Holburn station. She hung up again and she allowed herself to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is way angstier than I planned. I need to have a long talk with myself about that.


	4. Chapter 4

One of the perks of being tightly wound was waking up naturally (although still fundamentally, biologically tired) at the same time every morning with a half hour margin of error. This morning Finn woke up with handfuls of sheet in each fist. He relaxed his grip and tried to avoid joining the world of the living for as long as possible. 

She was in his blood, somehow. It had begun long time ago, simmering and stirring in him. All the fighting and antagonising. He hated how predictable it sounded. That drivel from romantic comedies about a man and a woman fighting at first, annoying each other, ultimately they fall in love. Pure shit. This wasn't love, anyway. This was gravity. This was physics. He was a dying star. She was a supernova. Two galaxies collapsing into each other for eternity. Swirling and pinwheeling into oblivion. There would be no romance, no toothy smiles as the credits rolled, just a silent explosion that could take out a corner of the universe.

He had to get the upper hand back somehow. Or the even hand. Cold War stalemate, at minimum. There was a weight in his chest that was directly related to the fact that she was...well, toying with him made it sound lighthearted, low stakes. This was outright manipulation. He’d shown his cards last night. There was no mistaking what he looked like when she almost touched him; when he touched her. God, he wished he could fire her again. He wished he could bring her to multiple orgasms. He wished he could fuck her in her own office, fire her, have her forcibly removed from that office, then bring her home and fuck her again. Repeat to fade. 

He opened his eyes. He wished his ceiling had cracks he could stare at.

\-----

Finn arrived at the office. It was a flurry of activity. Easy to make it to his desk without talking to anyone. He sat down heavily in his chair and dialed Harry, as on the way in he’d read a few words he expressly remembered encouraging him to omit from his piece on the kiddie pool. 

“Harry, yeah, hi. Yeah. Yeah, I thought you might. Listen-” Harry was interrupting to ask for an official statement on something daft that he’d ‘heard off the record’. Obviously daft because Finn himself had better fucking be the only leaky tap here. And it took a while to wade through the daftness, and then he was only hearing every third word. The connection was fine. His brain was cutting out. 

Liz. Head. Attacked. Home. 

“Gonna call you back with that, Harry.” He choked out the last words and his fingers fumbled to end the call. 

He was numb for a while. Felt like a long time. His vision swam then returned sharper than before. He stood, nearly knocking his chair over with the force of his ascent. 

“Fuck!” he shouted, to absolutely no effect. He banged his left thigh hard on the corner of his desk as he rushed to the door. “Fucking _Christ_!” he shouted again (and this time it did help his leg hurt a little less). He barrelled down the hallway toward Mia’s desk. Empty. He looked around in vain, as if he craned his neck more vigorously and in different directions she might materialise. It worked. 

“Finn?” She was behind him. The force with which he turned caused her to step back and retreat to the safety behind her desk, throwing a startled look behind her. 

“Why is Harry from the fucking _Gaurdian_ telling me that Liz was attacked outside of her home,” he checked his watch, “fucking 12 hours ago?”

“I didn’t tell him!” Mia said, taken aback yet again.

“No. No, why-” he faltered, realizing he was about to potentially admit that he was well and truly out of a fucking crucial loop, “It's true.” It wasn’t a question; he could see surprised concern in Mia’s face. His body straightened and he looked at a point on the wall behind and just above Mia’s head. “When did you find out?”

“She called me right after it happened and asked me to prepare contacts for-” she stopped when he waved his hand at her to cease the information. “She didn’t…?” Mia began the question but then trailed off out of sympathy for the look on his face. And out of knowing on which side her bread was buttered, and it wasn’t the ‘speaking embarrassing truths aloud’ side. 

“No, well why would she?” he raged, his eyes having taken their fill from the point on the wall and now roving the hallway for small, loose items that could double as projectiles.

“You’re the deputy of the depart-” She didn’t stop soon enough, and to be quite honest she shouldn’t have even started that one. 

He allowed himself two or three glares in her direction as he continued his manic sweep of his surroundings, _she shouldn’t have been in any danger._ He remembered something. “Does Inglis know?”

“Yes?” 

“ _Shit!_ ” This was good cover, actually. It would be normal for him to be upset about his job being threatened. He could work this angle. He could find out where she was and how she was without being accused of caring. “Where is she?” 

“Holburn, giving her statement.” Finn pumped his head in her direction once and made to turn back to his office for his coat. “But if she didn’t tell you, maybe-”

“Maybe what, Mia?” he rounded on her. “Maybe she received hammer blow to her skull and it impaired her judgement? Maybe it wasn’t actually her you spoke with on the phone last night, it was a body snatcher, we’re all in danger, the pod people are coming?” 

“Jesus, Finn, it wasn't a hammer. Can people survive hammers? I don't think she wants you to..." she once again cautiously stopped herself, "maybe you should just...work on something else?”

He bestowed upon her a withering look of such magnitude that he had, for these past 6 months or so, reserved only for Liz. “Something else, Mia?” 

“Well, I mean, we’ve got a lot on at the moment, actually, there’s the kidnapping...”

“Abduction, she’s thirty.”

“Um, Robert Vas’ trial begins next week.”

“That doesn’t need anything, that’s next week! That might as well be a million years away.” He made another start toward his office. 

“They’re threatening another tube strike.” Mia raised her voice after him.

“You just made that up.” he shouted without turning back. Oh, Mia, like he wouldn't know about a- he caught up with himself. Whirled around again, stomped back to her. “You made that up, what’s going on?” Instinct told him he needed to find a TV. a screen, anything. He raced to the conference room and saw her face, like a gut punch, a slap, a bump of coke, nails on a chalkboard, an old friend. On TV. She was on TV, live. Alive and live on TV.

Mia caught up to him as he raised the volume.

“...last night. And it’s important now, more than ever to be clear about our message. Our mission. The Met understands, we do, that this city is still hurting. They deserve answers even if we don't agree with how the question is asked. The police are responsible for the safety and well-being of the people of this city, but the people are responsible for keeping the police accountable.” _No no no._ “And that’s the idea behind Metwork.” _No no no fuck! no no no no_ “a direct channel between the police and the people. We’ll tell you everything, you’ll tell us what you don’t like.” _fuck fuck fuck stupid fuck_ “An open dialogue, with the public and other media outlets.”

He couldn't stop looking at her face. He wanted to stop. It was hurting him. Luckily his vision was swimming again. Good. She’s as distorted on the outside, now, too. The anchor was speaking.

“...use the word ‘Media’...aren't you at all concerned about drawing further comparisons to the vandalism that depicts you as someone hungry for attention and that was almost certainly directly related to your attack last night?”

“Yes, yes, fucking yes she fucking should be concerned.” Finn muttered, some of the words catching in his throat, sounding hollow. His heart was beating too fast.

“Finn,” he heard Mia speaking from a different world. He ignored her.

“...my job. Again, we may not like or condone the way that the question was asked, but we must answer it, we must be held accountable. The comparison has already been made between what I do, what my job is, and the depiction of me as someone simply seeking attention. And of course I like attention, George, I like it when people remember my birthday or recognize when I’ve achieved a personal or professional goal, but no one who knows a me could agree with the characterisation made on buildings all over the city. It is my job to clarify and help people understand what the Metropolitan Police…”

Finn couldn't listen to any more. Couldn't watch her face move, couldn't bear to think about the thousands of decisions made without him over the past 12 hours that culminated in this moment. 

“...and that is the whole idea behind Metwork.”

_Fuck._

He swiveled as if on casters to face Mia who had the good sense to step backward (once again) at the expression on his face. He moved toward her, not stopping until he was less than a foot away.

“Get me. A car. Now.”

Mia nodded, and as Finn followed her out of the room he made an attempt at hiding his feelings by saying, “and if you're going to lie to me again, keep public transportation out of it.”

\----- 

It took nineteen minutes to get to the Broadcasting House. He used each one of those minutes to send a flurry of texts declining follow-ups and off the records about Metwork. Declining calls that came in mid-typing. He swore rapidly and repeatedly, making eye contact in the rearview mirror only once with the driver, at whom he rolled his eyes for just existing. He arrived, slammed the door of the car, told the driver not to wait, and tried not to all-out run into the building. He didn't, as it turned out, have to even enter. She was exiting, talking to a segment producer, heading toward her own waiting car. He turned and followed at a distance. The producer shook her hand about ten feet away from the car and turned back to his workplace. Finn sped up and reached her just as she was opening the back door.

“Finn! Jesus! Why aren't you-”

“We need,” he was surprised he sounded almost calm, “to talk.”

She had the decency not to ask ‘about what’. Instead, she stood back from the open door and allowed him to get inside first. If it had been him holding the door he might have slammed it with her inside and run off to the nearest tube station. A part of him acknowledged that he still had a lot to teach her as she slid in next to him. Hold that thought. She kept sliding. She was sitting in the middle of the seat, so close to him. Closer. Her thigh touching his. 

“Liz.” He breathed, “move over.”

Of course she moved closer still.

“Liz.” He aimed at a warning tone, but some desire crept in. 

“Oh, gee, sorry. My bad.” She moved away. 

_Gee? Did she just say gee?_

He looked at the back of the passenger seat as the car began the return trip to the Met HQ. Now that he was here he realized he didn't have an attack plan. It had seemed so important to just be where she was, to stop anymore damage happening. Now he was here he felt...oh shit. Impotent was the word. Fuck off. Barrel through. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“I talked to Inglis last night, Finn, it was approved.”

“Not-” he began, but faltered. “That’s not what I…”

God, he was making an absolute fucking hash of this. And she sat there, letting him wallow in it. She would let him drown, he was sure of it.

“Why didn't you call me? After it happened. Why did you let the deputy of your department find out from a damn journalist? I'm-” he stopped, thought briefly, then barrelled through once more "I'm glad you're not phyisically hurt. But have you been to hospital? Because there is a lot of evidence in the brain damage column. That I can see."

In his periphery he saw her look at him, studying. He kept his gaze locked on the seat. 

“After our discussion last night, you weren't high on my list of ‘people to tell I was just bludgeoned over the head.’”

“Liz, I’m your second in command. Whether we like it or not. I need to know about...things.”

“Things!” She turned her upper body to face him; he still didn't look at her. 

“Things, yes. Occurrences. Items. Really fucking important shit that happens and directly affects the department and the police. Like, you know. When Richard killed himself and you sat on it like a deranged hen on an egg filled with shit. Shit that had been set on fire. A flaming shit inside of an egg.” He finally turned his head to make eye contact. She was almost smiling at him. He hated her. So much. He wanted to open the door of the car and push her out. 

“I’m sorry, Finn, you’re right.”

_And then instruct the driver to reverse over her._

“Maybe I wasn't thinking straight. I would absolutely have wanted to know if the situation was reversed. It won't happen again.” She began looking her phone, apparently under the impression that the conversation was over. She pulled a water bottle from her purse and began sloshing the liquid back and forth. Pointedly aggravating him. He knew it. She knew it. Oh, surely this would end in death.

Finn glanced at the driver, wishing he and Liz were more alone, either so he could initiate a conversation about all the things he didn't like or understand about her, or so that there would be no witnesses. He felt like he was losing his grip on everything. He had more to say, he knew it, but he couldn't get the words out. He opted instead for silence, staring sullenly out of the window. 

“Why are you here, Finn?"

“To yell at you.” He responded rapidly, still watching buildings pass by.

“You're not doing a lot of yelling. Do you need me to start without you?"

“I'll ramp up on my own, thanks." Hated her, hated her, hated her. "And maybe I've instructed the driver to take us to a disused warehouse and I'm going to do most of the yelling once we're alone with the pistols."

“Aren't you worried I'm packing heat right now? You've seen the color of my passport, right?"

“As blue as all the blue states you've lived in, yes." Hated her. "And we invented dueling, Liz, just because your home country has rifles mounted on their mobility scooters doesn't mean you have an edge in a duel." 

“You're aware that the UK is only 4 percentage points lower than the US in terms of overweight population, right? You're fat, too. You just don't serve cheese in a can. Get over yourselves."

"Being opposed to cheese in a can _is_ my flag, Liz. I will wave it until my body is cut up and put through a meat grinder and turned into whatever a 'sloppy joe' is.

She laughed at that. Actually laughed. Well, a chuckle. But it was bright. A cascade of bells. Maybe she really did have brain damage. Maybe he could use that to get her sectioned. He hated her. He wanted her. Couldn't look at her. They really should just go to a disused warehouse and just sort this out once and-

“Who told you?” Liz asked, airily.

“Why, are you going to have them put to death for breaking the cone of silence?”

“No.” Liz smiled to herself. “Talking to you is punishment enough.”

“Harry likes me. I bought him a curry once.”

“Harry,” she said in almost a whisper. “Shoulda guessed.”

“Are you going to tell me what happened or should I call him back and tell him to meet me at Cinnamon Club?”

“Why don't I get a fancy curry? I was the one nearly bludgeoned to death.” She smiled at him and took a drink from her water bottle. He watched her throat work. He tried not to be weird.

“Yes, nearly being the operative word.”

“Fucking duh, Finn, _nearly_. How many dead people do you buy curries for?”

Fine, then let’s say you lost the right to tikka masala by not telling me about it, getting Mia to lie to me, launching a giant fucking news network behind my back-”

“Okay, no curry. Which would be vindaloo, by the way. Or Biryani. I’m just saying it’s weird, Finn, we’ve worked together how long now? You’ve never bought me food. Just a coffee. Once.”

“Yeah. I spit in that coffee, Liz. What do you think I’d do to a full meal?” He turned at the sound of her coughing desperately and gasping for air. 

“You spit in my coffee?” she sputtered, still trying to clear her throat.

Finn released a snort, “Just the once. It was more of a dangler, just on the lid.” 

A deep, calming breath. “And the best time to bring it up is right now?”

“As an alternative to sitting here while you refuse to tell me anything that’s happened in the last half a day? As I drift ever farther away from the loop? As you leave me, as you have so often attempted to do, dangling like an 80-year-old man at a bathhouse? Yes. Yes, I spit in your coffee, Liz. I’d do it again.”

She was staring at him, still, as the car arrived at their destination. He opened his door and his vision swam for a third time that day. His pulse spiked. He looked down at a hand that wasn't his resting, with adequate force to keep him pinned to the seat, on his knee. He whipped his head up to look at Liz, but her face was already so, so close. 

She leaned in, her lip brushed the shell of his ear. He shuddered with ecstasy, he nearly moaned. Her voice was deep and steady:

“I’ll absolutely get you for that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry if this is turning out terrible. I think it has developed a mind of its own now and I'm just a puppet bent to its will? Not sure.


	5. Chapter 5

Things, it could be argued, had escalated. Liz noticed that Finn was walking awkwardly into the building. _Point to her_. She also acknowledged that she had to have a little talk with herself about her own body’s reaction to him. _Point to an unjust god_. 

Liz was self-aware. It’s difficult to grow up the child of well-educated, well-meaning parents, beautiful, blonde and intelligent, without constant self-imposed reality checks. She knew she was running from what happened last night. What was still happening. Maybe ‘running’ was the wrong word. More like surfing (she hated actual surfing) the wave of what her life had become. If she didn't move with the mass, she would drown. Drowning was not an option. Thoughts of Richard’s face and voice, disjointed, came to her unbidden. No. Tamp it down. Work to do. 

She spent the rest of the day in meetings about Metwork. So much to do. What a wonderful feeling that was. Mostly people just did what they were told and kept their opinions about her mental state to questioning stares when they thought she wasn't looking. A few brave souls asked her how she was feeling and she blasted them with all the thankful sincerity she could muster before turning and dropping the expression from her face like a hot rock.

She spoke to DI Harding four times throughout the day, each with increasing levels of frustration for both parties. First was the news that they'd pulled the CCTV footage, but it wasn't of any use. They were wearing hoods. Knew where to angle their faces to avoid the camera. That was fine. She didn't expect more than that. The next two conversations were purportedly to give her updates, but in reality were thinly veiled accusations that her attack was her own fault for stopping the removal of the graffiti. It didn't help that Finn was in the room for one of those conversations and she had to watch his face attempt to remain impassive. It didn't. She hated him. She loved his mouth.

The last conversation was around 6pm. In it, Harding told her she should stay with a friend or in a hotel under an assumed name. Her safety couldn't be guaranteed at her own place. She thanked him for his insight and hung up, planning to completely ignore his advice. The first person that came to mind as Granger and she would rather be hit over the head again, honestly. Actually, she wouldn't even acknowledge the _first_ first person that came to mind because that was laughable. No. she wouldn't let this take over her life. She needed a distraction. 

“Mia! Hey.” She sauntered casually up to her employee’s desk, “any plans tonight? I could really use a drink.”

“Er, actually I do have plans? I’m supposed to go over to mum’s to help her digitize old photos.” She looked uneasy and Liz knew her own face hadn't masked the disappointment quickly enough. “I could probably change that. I’ll change that.”

“No! No, god. Please don't. I just. I’ll be…” she almost said fine, but that would imply she wouldn't be anyway. “No, have fun!”

“Four hours with wine and a scanner. Bound to be a thousand laughs.”

“Right!” Liz did a pretty decent impression of a laugh, “Um, goodnight then.” Liz made her way back to her office despite the fact that she was wearing her coat already. Hopefully no one noticed. Fuck it. She really had to spend more time making friends she didn't hate. She dropped her coat into a chair and made herself a coffee, delaying going home, wondering if she should get a hotel room after all. She looked through her window out over London at night. Beautiful and majestic. Lonely and terrifying. She heard a distinctive throat clearing behind her, just outside the door of her office. She tried to keep herself from smiling and failed. Hopefully he couldn't see her reflection in the glass.

“Planning on knocking through some walls?”

“One or two. Would anyone miss The Shard, really?”

She turned in time to see an eye roll. “I finished this list. Personal opinion, we should go with Angela for anchor. She's been critical of us in the past, but never, you know, _critical_ , critical. And she’s not white, which helps. On other levels.”

“Nice, Finn.” It was dripping with sarcasm but also she probably meant it.

“Right, well-”

“Should I get a hotel room?” He froze. His face a rictus of awkward confusion tinged with hopeful spite. Gorgeous. She threw him a lifeline, “Harding says I’m not safe at home. And I know I could ask to post TSGs outside my flat, but that would become the story. And I don't want that.”

Relief passed over his face quickly followed by annoyance. He very clearly wanted to leave. That hurt her. He spoke quickly and without much inflection. “You know what’s best for you. And at a hotel you could boss a whole new group of people around, which might be fun. I guess just keep me informed with what you decide.” He turned to leave.

“Finn, wait.” She addressed his turned but now motionless back. “I don't want to go home. I don't want to go anywhere.” She winced at the admission.

He faced her again, a wary look on his face. He was intelligent, she knew. Not like Granger. You could tell Granger two contradictory statements or express two polar opposite emotions and if he even noticed, he wouldn't think much of it, just attempt to fuck the change of events. She could see Finn at war with himself. At war with her. “I know I’m sending you mixed messages about my state of mind. This isn't about work. I can speak for myself, still. That hasn't changed. But, um,” she decided there wasn't much to lose anyway, “it turns out I don't have any friends here. Or many. And I could use someone to talk to without having to explain everything about me. And since you’ve been spying on me during our entire working relationship, you’re um, perfectly suited for the task.” That tasted wrong in her mouth, but she attempted to sell it to him, anyway.

“You want to talk to someone.”

“Yeah! I’ll buy your drinks and everything.”

“Liz, we’re not friends.” He spat the word; he was good at spitting.

“Oh, Christ. Of course we're not. _God_ , no.”

“So then why would I-”

“Think of it as leverage.” She sounded desperate and it scared her that she didn't mind. “I might get drunk enough to reveal the cheat codes to my destruction. How could you pass that up?”

He stared at her. She could tell he’d been won over, not necessarily by the prospect of dirt on her. Perhaps it was enough that she knew to play on those motives. He looked great in his shirtsleeves. In this light. Loose tie. _Just a few drinks, Finn. Come on. Just say-_

“I had a dream two weeks ago that I had you committed to an asylum. And then lobotomized.” 

“Wow.” She moved her mouth around a smile. Only the corners quirked; she pursed her lips to quash the rest. He still caught it. She knew she should be outraged. Male fantasies of removing the brain from women dangerous and daring enough to think like them; better than them. She doubted, however, that he had actually had any such dream about her. What a waste of fired synapses that would have been. “Well, then. What are you waiting for?”

“I don't think it would be a good idea to go out. Together.”

_Okay, then. That's valid. Hold it together. Fuck him, anyway. Who needs-_

“Fortunately, I know that Martin is a functioning alcoholic and he keeps a bottle of scotch in his filing cabinet.” He smirked at her and then stopped abruptly when she sighed in relief. “Right. I’ll be back, then.”

\----

Three drinks later her shoes were off, feet propped on the corner of her desk. She felt warm all over. Finn sat in a chair on the other side of the barricade (a seat he took without attempting a power play, probably because that kind of power was now small potatoes). He appeared to be holding his liquor a bit better than she was. Not by much.

“Columbo.” He said, after a thoughtful pause.

“Columbo?!” Liz exclaimed, genuinely surprised. “You think Lieutenant Columbo is the best fictional policeman? Not, like, Sherlock Holmes or...whatsit...Ms. Marple?”

He held his hands up defensively, though one of his hands held his glass using just the ring created by his thumb and forefinger, the other fingers fanned out in support of his argument, “You asked the question, don't squawk at the answer.”

“It's just-can't you be deported for saying that?” She caught him staring at her legs. She recrossed them and smiled innocently at him when he looked back at her face.

“Liz, both of the people you just mentioned aren't actually police.” He had his chin pointed down almost touching his chest, looking at her like prey, swirling the liquid in his glass. “They’re detectives, but not actually police. And you asked for a fictional policeman.” The smirk, never far away, was now back in place.

“Okay, fine. But why Columbo and not, um. Who’s the guy, the opera one.”

“He’s an alcoholic.”

“So?!”

“I’m basing this on optics. Inspector Morse would be a PR nightmare. In reality. We know little to nothing about Columbo. That works in our favor. All we really know is that he’s married, lovably scruffy, deceptively intelligent, and his clearance rate is phenomenal. That’s an easy sell.”

“I think his wife is fake. I think he just uses stories about her to lull Robert Culp into a false sense of security.”

“Never underestimate the well-placed fake wife.” His eyes swept over her again. “Still wish I had mine, sometimes.”

“Yeah!” Liz replied, oozing sincere enthusiasm, “how is Sarah?”

“A bit upset with you.” He looked as his drink again.

“Oh, the jealous type, is she? Worried about all the long hours you put in?” Her voice was calm, carefree. But the direction the conversation had taken flooded her body with warmth that had little to do with the scotch. It was good scotch. Strong. Ah. She hadn't eaten today.

“Yes. And I keep telling her that my boss isn't making unwanted sexual advances on me, but just you try getting her to believe it.”

“That your boss is making them?” Perhaps a bit of fear crept into her voice, “or that they’re unwanted?” She might never forgive herself if she’d been wrong about this. If she’d ever made him uncomfortable in a way that wasn't...well. Part of the game. Part of a game she was sure they were both playing on an even field,

Finn gazed at her appraisingly, then downed the last swallow of his drink. “I can't convince her I don't want them.”

_Fuck_ yes.

“What are you two doing about that?” She turned her head away from him to lean it on the back of her chair. She arched her back, sliding further down in her seat so more of her legs were visible on the desk. An obvious ploy made more obvious by using the toes of her left foot to trace a line up her right calf. They both watched this action with rapt attention. Then she rolled her head to the side to meet his gaze, warning, dark, but oh so consenting. “Counseling?”

He didn't speak, just continued to stare at her with a mixture of lust and resigned anger. Gorgeous, gorgeous.

“See, what’s great about this,” she made a gesture that took in her legs and his face, “is that you can't make a Mrs. Robinson joke because I’m nearly a decade younger than you.”

“Has it been a while since you seduced someone? Because usually you don't bring up the age gap.” His admonition was undercut by a squeak on the last two words as she parted her legs ever so slightly and closed them again.

“Is that bad form? Shouldn't that be a point of interest for me? Ten additional years of skill honing.” She dropped her legs to the floor and stood up, placed her hands on her desk and leaned forward. “Of course maybe you had better things to concentrate on. Gathering all that dirt on Caroline. Or maybe those two go hand in hand.”

“Now you’re really losing the thread.”

“I could die soon.” She straightened herself. She didn't mean to say that out loud. Didn't even really mean to think it. But it was out there now. His expression darkened, became hard. He tilted his head in analysis.

“Riiight. So this is...thrill-seeking behavior because you think your life is in danger?” 

The warmth dissipated slightly, “No. I don't know. Maybe?” He leaned back in his chair to look at her. “Does that matter?” Her voice sounded fragile and hollow and she hated everything about it.

“I don't know if I want to fiddle while Rome burns, is all.” He looked down. She’d lost. She watched him grab the bottle and pour himself another three fingers or so.

“Right. Maybe you’re right.” She walked around the desk in the direction of the door. She stopped and turned to him when she realized her unforgivable concession. “Actually you’re not right. I’m not acting this way just because I’m drunk or because I’m frightened. Which I am, definitely both of those things. But I am not defined by those traits. People are complicated all the time. Not sure if they inserted that data chip in you at the factory. But, I think I want to” she took a shallow breath deciding whether or not to proceed, then toppled headlong into “fuck you. And I have no idea why. I hate you. You’re only marginally attractive and I could do better. I want to do better. But I want you. And I hate it, but I want it more than I hate it at time of press. Do with that information what you will; analyze it against the mass of evidence you’ve previously compiled on me and decide how you’ll use it because I could go either way at this point." That wasn't entirely true; he didn't to know it. "I’m going to the bathroom, now.” All he did was stare at her, jaw tense, eyes darker than ever. Right. Fine.

She opened the door and walked down the hall realizing halfway to the facilities that she was barefoot and that was gross but she couldn't bring herself to return for her shoes. That would certainly undercut her monologue. 

She splashed water on her face and studied her reflection in the mirror. The light was dimmer after hours, strange shadows cast across her face. She looked gaunt. 

She remembered this being more fun when she was 20. Tumultuous peaks and valleys of lust and longing. Not so much ten years later. It takes a toll. Obviously. Obviously, she wasn't bothered if he didn't want her or couldn't handle her, right? It wasn’t like this was important. She hated him, anyway. This was fine  
So what if sometimes she couldn't stop thinking about the times he could have been considered to be genuine with her. Or the sound of his voice. Or the way he made her deliciously on edge. Or that in her whole career she’d never met anyone that challenged her or made her work harder to prove herself. 

That didn't matter. Couldn't matter. Everything was fine, fine.

One more splash of water. She cupped some from the tap and swished it around in her mouth. Deep breath in, exhale. Tuck some hair behind the ear, use fingers to boost roots-no. No, no. Doesn't matter. Right.

Deep breath. Exhale. Pull the door open.

Finn was there in the hallway and time slowed. 

He didn't say anything, she didn't have time to say anything. He took one step forward, put his hands on either side of her face and then it was happening. His lips against hers. He caught her with her mouth already half open and her muffled grunt of surprise vibrated between them. It turned into a hum, a question, when he rearranged his hands on her so that his fingers were in her hair, tugging. Bringing her closer to him. Pressed against his body, his mouth moving against hers still, working together. He moved them sideways and brought her back up to the wall. Her hands were on his sides, pressing into the muscles over his ribs. He had her pinned in almost painfully in place and she’d pay god money to ensure that it never stopped. One thumb began tracing the line of her cheekbone, the other dropped to rest over her throat. He applied pressure lightly to the hand near her neck and pushed away from her, breathing heavily, eyes lidded. 

“Liz.” started to take a step backward. 

“No.” she breathed, and grabbed fistfuls of his shirt and pulled him back to her. Their lips crashed together again and she would never admit it, but she whimpered at the joy of the renewed contact. He made a noise in this throat and moved his hands to her hips. She shifted her leg and he took that as an invitation to attempt to hoist her up around his waist. Her skirt got in the way. So next it was the feel of his fingers tracing up her legs, bringing the material with them, while she cupped the front of his pants, feeling him, her mouth watering, he swore under his breath. Then she practically jumped into his arms. They teetered, slightly, regaining their balance and finally slammed against the wall once more. She yelped in pain against his lips. She was so thankful that it didn’t stop him. He ground against her and it was wonderful; the best she’d felt in months. She nipped at his neck. He rolled his hips again and she moaned. She grazed her teeth against his earlobe and he shook. 

He felt real, and his single-mindedness was intoxicating. She never wanted to think again. 

But not thinking isn't a good idea. Thinking makes you good at your job. Thinking is what helps you get dressed in the morning. Thinking, _oh that felt good_ , thinking is, _oh god_ , it’s um. Important. Important.

“Finn, Finn.” She lowered her legs back to the floor. He jumped away from her like she’d grown a second head. He wiped at his mouth and began to avoid her eyes. “Um,” she said and then couldn't for the life of her think of any words to follow it.

“That was a mistake, probably,” he said, but she didn't think for minute that he meant it was a bad idea. 

“What, lurking outside the ladies' room to attack me?” She straightened her skirt and tried to get her breathing under control. 

“No, that part was great. The part when I tried to stop and you attempted to climb inside my body was ill-advised.

“Fuck off.”

“Fuck you.”

“Okay, but not here.” She began walking down the hallway to her office.

“No, Liz.” 

“No?” She turned to face him again and he had a serious look on his face, indeed. 

“You should get some sleep. Or eat something. And we should both go home separately.”

“That's a terrible idea. Sounds awful. Besides I can't go home.”

“Do you want hotel suggestions?”

She studied him, weighing her options, trying not to scream. “No.” She made a decision. “No, I’ll handle it.” She turned and began walking back to her office again. “G’night!” She injected both syllables with angry cheerfulness.

“Liz.” he called after her, but not really a call for her to return, just saying her name. 

“ _Goodnight!_ ” she called again, and he stopped trying.

Good. Fine. She was in her office alone, now. Fine. 

Worked up and shaken and alone and completely, completely fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all, I'm sorry for the gratuitous Columbo references.


	6. Chapter 6

_Shit._

The whole floor was quiet. He sat in his office and listened to the silence, wanting to hear her leaving. He wanted to hear her buying a plane ticket back home, loudly on the phone. He wanted to hear her running down the hall to his office in her bare feet. He wanted to hear her moan again.

A jolt of arousal shocked through his pelvis. He felt trapped; he couldn't leave while he might still run into her. He wanted to run into her. He wanted to beg for forgiveness for his momentary sanity. He wanted to tell her they would never touch again. He wanted to get on his knees and wrap her legs around his head in the lift after he ran into her there. Which, oh right, he didn't want to do.

He heard a ding. He heard a metal door sliding. 

He waited another half an hour before leaving the building, too. 

———

He didn't sleep at all. 

He’d left the office around eleven, gone home, nearly chucked his phone into the bin because he kept almost dialling Liz, laid in bed all but yanking tufts of hair from his head, composed 7 texts messages and deleted them, scoured the internet for reasons to be awake, rearranged his closet, shouted abuse at late night television, ordered new pants online (a 3 pack of black briefs) and watched as the sky turned deep black, purple, pink, fire red and blue. 

He heaved himself out of his armchair and got dressed.

He managed to lay low in his office until 9:30. Then he made his way to see the Commissioner.

“Jesus, Finn. What’s happened to you? Were you bludgeoned over the head as well?” 

“No, just couldn't-didn't sleep well last night. Did you see the top picks for the desk? Has Liz shown them to you?” Keep it light and casual, voice steady. 

“Nobody’s seen her today, apparently.” Finn’s stomach lurched and a small siren went off in his head and it was all he could do not to run from the office and shout at everyone until he found out- “...run off to City Council where she’s statistically less likely to be threatened?” Inglis was still talking. And expecting a reply, going by the look on his face.

“Oh, er, no. No, I don't think so, she’d be tainted over there at the moment, too. Sorry, what do you mean nobody’s seen her?” Usually a skill improves with repetition. The opposite appeared to be true for pretending he didn't care. 

“Well of course after the incident we sent someone round to her place, but she wasn't there.”

His heart shuddered, he began to feel clammy all over. “Hotel.” He cleared his throat, “she was advised to stay at a hotel.” He pulled his phone from his pocket. He’d been gripping it so hard he was amazed it hadn't shattered. “I’ll try and check around, shall I?”

“Finn.”

“Commissioner?” _Please just let me leave this room and fix the problem._

“You’re good at the broad strokes. You and I share a knack for keeping wolves at bay. I’m not threatening you...” _Speak faster._ “But I do hope that this has made an impression. Not everything is a game or a chip to be played.”

“Of course.” Finn realised his demeanour was coming off as abrupt as he felt inside, so he added, “Commissioner.”

“Of course what?” 

“Not everything's a game, of course it isn't.” He tried to arrange his face into sincerity and not just barely concealed rage and panic. “This isn't a game I’m playing, it’s my job. It’s your job. It’s her job.”

“Please stop saying job.”

“I think I should locate Liz. I’ll have Mia pull a list of hotels.”

“Finn, we’re the Metropolitan Police and one of our own might be in trouble.”

All stoicism had been depleted at this point. “Yes, Commissioner, which is why-”

“Trace her phone.”

“Right.” Embarrassed relief washed over him. “Right.”

“If she’s just skiving off it’ll scare the shit out of her.” Finn simply offered a polite grimace as he turned to leave. “Oh and she’s still expected at the end-of-year do, tonight. Even if she’s currently chained to a radiator.”

\-----

Forty minutes later, Finn was standing beside a TSG at the door of a rowhouse. Liz was inside, or at least her phone was. He was upset it wasn't a hotel. He was upset it wasn't her own flat. He was upset by the research done on the man whose flat this was. He had no reason to be upset, and that upset him more than anything. He realised he’d just been standing there when the nameless TSG cleared his throat and raised his fist, making pointed eye contact, ‘should I knock, or are we waiting for armed reinforcements?’ Finn nodded at him and the officer knocked. Finn spent the next 45 seconds pretending he was somewhere else, anywhere else. The next 15 seconds after that were spent making sure his sneer was at full capacity for whoever greeted them. The TSG knocked several additional times. Then they heard an annoyed, drawling, male voice approach from the other side of the closed door. The hair on Finn’s neck raised and he could convince himself later that it was just because of the December chill. The door opened to reveal a man with impossibly high hair in a vest and pants. “Oh, hallo.”

Finn’s sneer hardened. He was speechless. He hated that he was speechless. He hated this man’s hair. He hated that he knew who this man was. He hated that he knew which pictures he was in, in which cafes. He hated that he’d stared for far too long at an image of Liz in a black top, low neckline, holding a comically large cup of coffee, and this man’s arms around her, his face buried in her neck. He hated pictures. The internet. This house. The whole damn city. But, back at the centre of it all, he hated the choking noises coming from his own throat. 

Luckily his new best mate the TSG chimed in. “Good morning, sir, we’re looking for Elizabeth Garvey and we have reason to believe she’s currently at this address.”

Finn was expecting a denial; hoping for one. But instead the trouserless man turned and shouted inside “Liz! There are police on my doorstep!” _Oh yes, hit those s’s a little harder, ponce._ “I’d invite you in, but it’s, er, a bit of a mess.” 

Finn was able to process large quantities of information in a small amount of time. That was day one stuff. Absorb everything and use it later as needed. But now, here, his brain was failing him. He was angry, climbing down from panicked, picking up pieces of annoyance from the ladder on his way down, and this absolute arsehole was, what, half naked? His pupils were dilated, maybe? Sweaty. Was he high? Liz was in there. Confirmed to be in there. Was she high too? Was she skiving off work to get high with an arsehole she used to date? He needed more information. Or less. He needed to run really quite far away. 

Too late. Liz’s voice.

“I emailed Mia. I-” she made eye contact with Finn and her eyes widened. She gathered a dressing gown _a dressing gown_ closer around her and her throat constricted briefly. Finn looked away. Liz’s voice again, less annoyed, slightly strained. “Granger, give me a minute.”

“Police on my doorstep.”

“A minute, Granger.” Annoyed again.

The arse moved past her, and Finn looked back just in time to see him touching her waist as he went. He looked away again, his head whipping almost as if he’d been slapped, and raised his phone to his ear. He should have dialled someone first. He stepped away to have a fake conversation while he listened to the TSG explain why they were there. 

“I emailed Mia, though, to say I wouldn't be in until noon. A personal morning.”

“I’m guessing she didn't get it?” the officer helpfully supplied.

“I’m guessing not.” Liz’s voice was testy and Finn could tell without looking that her eyes were on him. She was directing lasers of contempt at him. Well, good. He was teflon. He was a rock. He was wrapping up his fake phone call. He walked back to the door where Liz was studying her phone.

“...drafts. It’s still in drafts.”

Finn didn't look at her. “It’s the little thing that looks like a paper aeroplane, Liz. You should press that next time.”

Liz turned to the TSG. He should really learn the man’s name. “Can we have just a second, please? I’m really sorry to have wasted your time.”

“Doesn't matter to me! Glad you’re alright.” He rotated on the spot and amiably made his way back to his transport.

“Yeah, thanks.” She watched the retreating neon back until they were no longer in earshot. He saw her look at him out of the corner of her eye, but her gaze was on the street while she spoke. “So you, what, called out the bloodhounds? Gave them an item of clothing to sniff?”

“We traced your phone.” He was only just containing his rage. He was mostly focused on the door jamb, which was probably responsible for all the hurt and hunger in the world, but he occasionally shot glances at Liz. Her eyes. Her neck. Her hands holding the cloth around her waist.

“Wow. Jesus. My phone?”

“Liz, you were attacked within the last 48 hours and then nobody knew where you were. It wasn't an overreaction.” Evil, evil door jamb.

For the second time in that same 48 hours she asked a question he didn't know the answer to: “But why are you here?”

His face betrayed him. That’s often meant poetically, but he felt the muscles in his face falter and he had serious plans to take them to court for treason. He didn't know why he was here. He was overdue for an answer but all he’d supplied thus far were sputters and clenched fists at his sides. “I...I just-”

“Because, Jesus, it’s really awkward that you’re here.”

He could hear the blood in his ears. He finally fixed her with his full attention. He marshalled his features, he looked deep into her eyes and practically begged her not to continue down this path. “I didn't say anything.”

“Did you have to?”

“No! There’s nothing to say! You can do whatever you-”

“Of course I fucking can.”

He glared at her. He hated her. He needed to think of new ways to feel hatred so that he could stand to feel it as often. “Okay, let’s play pretend.”

“Finn-”

“Let’s say, just for shits and more shits, that I came here for anything other than professional concern with a thick layer of well-documented self-interest regarding my job on top. Let’s say that I found out you were here and I looked up whose place this was and I put two and twat together and then came storming over with police officers to, what, spoil your cozy midday fuck-fest because I was jealous?”

“I didn't-”

“I’m not jealous. What you choose to do” he gestured vaguely toward everything “is none of my business. Unless everyone we work with is 85 percent sure you’re dead, in which case it becomes my business. But not because of anything that...happened.” She was looking shocked and slightly angry and somehow the way her brow furrowed and lips pouted was sexier than any naked woman he’d ever seen and he wanted to claw his eyes and brain out for being wired incorrectly. “I don't have a...claim over you. On you. I could’ve” he gestured vaguely again this time indoors and then at her and then glared angrily at the fucking door jamb again. “but I didn't, and you didn't.” Oh god he was rambling now. “And then you didn't show up for work and everyone was…” he waved his hands by his head and rolled his eyes and prayed for death because he had lost all control of this conversation, “and I don't care what you’ve been doing I just don't want to have to clean up another high profile police-associated death.”

She was smirking. He wished he could do something about that. He felt his adam’s apple bob and he knew she caught him glance at her lips. “Right.” She nearly purred, “I didn't mean to suggest you had feelings for me.” 

“Jesus fuck-” he composed himself. The look on her face was still smug, but with undercurrents of disappointment. Good. Good. “I’m glad you weren't killed as a pawn in the city’s war against its own law enforcement. I’m going to go back and do my job now. Are you going to come and assuage fears that you’re still alive?”

She cocked her head. “You mean ‘fears that I’m dead.’”

“It was a mixed bag when I left.”

“Fuck off,” she smiled.

“Inglis expects you at the festivities tonight and you can't miss a full day’s work and then just show up for champagne.”

“What is this? Am I in high school and I can't go to homecoming if I play hooky?”

“I understood almost nothing you just said.”

“Fuck off, again.”

“Glad to.” He turned and began walking to the car. 

“I’ll be there in half an hour.” She shouted after him and he gave her a thumbs up in acknowledgment that she was deigning to do her job. “Oh and I’m not a pawn. I’m the queen, remember?” He adjusted which of his digits was extending from his fist and smiled to himself when he heard her chuckle. 

\-----

“I can't believe Caroline came.”

“It’s basically a press event, Mia.” Finn popped another olive into his mouth and scanned the room.

“I mean I guess I can't believe she’s still a reporter. I mean, one that we talk to.” Mia cast a look in his direction that took in his exasperated expression and small plate filled with olive pits. “I also can't believe they didn't cater pitted olives.”

“Wouldn't do to be seen to cut her off. Makes it look like we’re hiding.” He looked at his plate. “I don't have answers for you about the olives.” He turned to face her fully. “Are you here alone?” 

“Er...yes? Why?”

“I don't know. Speeches are starting in a bit.” He set his plate down on a table where it absolutely didn't belong and then set off to navigate his way across the bustling event space. Cocktail attire. Big inebriated smiles. Eruptions of laughter that made his skin crawl. He wished he wasn't looking for her. He wished a high- ranking police officer would be caught wanking to a YouTube video of a man playing the clarinet in a green bodysuit. Anything, anything to get out of this...feeling. He was more on edge than usual. He was out of gum! He was completely fucked when he finally saw her. 

It was so predictable, that was the agony. Pretty woman, blonde, deep blue dress. High heels, some sort of off-white, possibly. The dress came down to her knees so it wasn't like she was showing too much skin, but if she’s viewed from behind, as Finn was currently doing with his mouth slightly open, her entire back was exposed, just the barest edges of her shoulders covered with fabric that also encased her toned arms down to the wrist. Perfectly appropriate attire for the situation. Perfectly atrocious attire for his lungs to remember to function without interruption.

One of her forearms was resting gently on one of the many tall white clothed tables dotting the hall. She was idly playing with the straw in her drink. She was laughing at something Tom was saying. He made eye contact with the timid policeman and then Liz followed Tom’s gaze. She started laughing as Tom clenched. “Oh, hey, Finn” she said after a partial recovery, “we were just talking about you.” 

Finn glared at the two of them. 

“I’m going to check on Sharon. See if she needs anything.” Tom returned Finn’s glare and left Liz and Finn alone in a room full of people.

“Tom! It's a party, you don't-” she called after him, but gave up. She smiled at Finn and took a coquettish pull from her drink. 

“Was I interrupting another exchange of sex for information?” He wished he had a drink. Or anything to do with his hands. God, he missed smoking.

“Don't be gross. How about for just the next hour you don't do or say anything gross?” She was still smiling and he could just see the tip of her tongue swirl around that damn straw.

“I won't if you don't. Where’s Drugsy Malone? If he's not here that’ll make it easier for you.” He scanned the room again just for something to do. The only person he wanted to look at was already-oh, fuck.

“You just lost by saying Drugsy Malone, so I can't really see how it could be easier. Are you okay?” Her voice shifted and was softer, almost concerned. “Your eyes look weird.”

“I didn't get much sleep.” He realised his admission, but if she had noticed as well, she didn't let on. 

Inglis was approaching the small stage where a microphone was standing between two opulent, wintry plant-like things. The two applauded along with the crowd; Liz set down her nearly finished drink on the table to do so. Inglis began speaking and, perhaps in an attempt to avoid mouthing the words along with him, Liz leaned close to Finn and whispered, “Neither did I.”

It was a heady mix of lust and contempt that goaded him to say “Really? Good for Drugsy. I’ve always heard it’s hard to perform whilst coked to the gills.”

He was facing Inglis, but aware of her staring at him in his peripheral vision. 

_“...difficult year, to say the least. We were challenged as a force, and as a city. The eyes of the world are on us, and they’ve seen us stumble, only to rise even higher…”_

Their table was at the very back of the crowd and nobody was paying attention, nobody saw Liz’s hand on Finn’s. Nobody saw her body lean into his “He didn't fuck me. Not last night.”

_“...and believe me when I say the challenges aren't over. They never are. We will need to prove ourselves again and again, we will need to work every day of this new year, just like the last and the one before…”_

“But if he had, Finn,” her lip grazed his earlobe,

_“...we will succeed. We will keep our city safe, and set an example for our children and the watching world…”_

“I would have screamed your name.”

The hand under hers slipped from its place and grabbed her wrist. He led her through the nearest pair of doors into the foyer, making sure nobody saw them leave. He rounded on her in the harsh fluorescent light; she teetered slightly on her heels. Beautiful, more beautiful, always beautiful. “Why.”

“Why what?”

“Just-” he stared at her, let go of her wrist, and tried to communicate telepathically, “Just why.”

She stared back, open and readable. “I don't know.”

He looked away from her, bunching his hands at his sides. He felt tired and stupid. He winced at the feel of her hand on his cheek and he kept his eyes trained on the carpet, but then heat consumed him, radiating from where she touched him, vibrating along him, down through the floor, up through the light fixtures, one with the universe, probably.

“That was a lie,” she whispered, could have been just speaking to herself, “I know, but I can't tell you yet.”

He looked at her again, they shared the briefest of eye contact before her eyes moved to his mouth. Her thumb traced over his lower lip. Her brow furrowed. She bit her lip. And something inside Finn burst open.

It caused his hands to cradle her head once again and crash his lips to hers, it caused her to whimper again, it caused him to stumble forward into her. It caused him to break away and look cautiously at the doors they’d just come through. He grabbed her wrist again and they moved together down the hall to an unassuming door, the first one they found. Inside were shelves and paint tins and electrical cord, nothing anybody could need tonight. She entered first, he followed and closed the door behind them. She pinned him against it as soon as it was shut. She was beautiful even when he couldn't see her. Even when she made him feel like he wasn't real. Even when she was the worst thing to happen to him.

She was kissing him. She was undoing the top buttons of his shirt. He was running restless hands along the expanse of her back. So smooth. Skin shouldn't be that smooth. She obviously drank the blood of children. He grabbed her by the waist and moved her toward a worktop. She hopped up on her own power and began hitching up her skirt and he hoped she’d forgot the growl that escaped him at that sight. He used just the tips of his fingers to pull at her neckline. This dress was, apparently, designed to be pulled neatly away from the body in a darkened supply cupboard. He caressed her breasts and tried not to take personally how perfect she was.

She grabbed his head and kissed him deeply again, distracting him, perhaps, as one of her hands began to deftly undo his belt and flies.

“Eerily good at that.”

“Shut.” she bit his lip quite hard, “The fuck.” she grabbed his tie and bit him somewhere on the jaw, “Up.” And then she gasped because his thumb was circling her clitoris. And then she moaned. 

“I think _you_ need to shut the fuck up.” He released his head from the vice grip she had on his hair and nodded toward the thin door before dipping it to attend to her peaking nipples with his mouth and most of his attention.

“Make me.” She grabbed his hand not currently providing her with much-needed friction and placed it over her mouth. He growled again and ground his hips against his wrist which was now rather inconveniently between him and where he wanted to be.

Liz made a muffled sound of impatience and released him from his pants with one hand and began pumping him while with the other she shoved his hand and her knickers out of the way.

 _She_ did it, then. It was _her_ that decided this. That was an oddly consoling thought as he sank into her. His breath shuddered. He grabbed her hip with his free hand to keep himself steady. He buried his face in her neck and released sounds that may have been words, but probably weren't. He began to move. She was clawing at his back, her legs wrapped around him as best she could manage. 

He paused and moved his hand from her mouth and she keened. 

“Shh. _Shh!_ ” 

“Then why did you take your hand away?”

“Can you hear that?”

_“...be forgot and never brought to mind…”_

“Are they singing Auld Lang Syne?”

“Finn.” She rolled her hips against him and he shook. She brought her hand up to gently caress his cheek again. “Is this our song?”

He released his mirth in a single breath and slammed into her, turning her grin into an expression of stifled ecstasy, her head lolled back against the wall. She cried out and his hand flew to cover the sound again but this time she took two of his fingers in his mouth and sucked on them and he fucking died. 

_We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne!_

He continued to move in her and she lifted herself toward him, wanting to be as close as possible or maybe seeking more control. He moved his hand back to between them and when he found her again she scraped her teeth against his knuckles, bit him, nearly drew blood. He might have been exaggerating. She began humming.

At first he assumed it was just generalised hums of pleasure. But of course, after listening for a while, he knew it was the song. It was the fucking song. He placed three open mouthed kisses along the column of her neck because he hated her so much, then used the hand over her mouth to turn her head away from him and he began slamming into her over and over, faster and faster. 

He felt her legs shake around him, heard a shoe drop to the floor, she grabbed at his wrist and he removed his fingers from her mouth. She took a breath and then kissed him as she came so he could swallow she short bursts of noise that escaped her. He catalogued each one and ranked them from 1-7. He tumbled quickly after her, and then the two of them were left in a post-coital glow the likes of which this cupboard probably wouldn't see again. 

And then he remembered he was a forty year old man who’d been awake for almost 48 hours and was, in every likelihood, about to keel over from exhaustion.

Liz patted his shoulder to get him to extract himself from her. She wiped at her mouth and even in the dim light he saw the mild disgust on her face.

“Olives? I hate olives.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why, yes I have seen The English Patient, why do you ask?

**Author's Note:**

> Liz's opinions of Finn's mouth and hair and head do not reflect my own. Just needed to say that.


End file.
